A Monster's Guise
by Monsieur Mimi
Summary: A Rociel and Katan piece; Rociel thinks of what his body truly is


**Author's Note**: This story could be set any time after the Assiah arc, but before Volumes 17 +. I haven't written Rociel/Katan for a while and so the quality is very poor and I apologize! The ending of the story is up for the interpretation of the individual reader.

In this fic there is quite a lot of angst, and it's bloody, so if you have an aversion for either, avoid.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Angel Sanctuary. I do not own Rociel or Katan. They all belong to Kaori Yuki, Hakusensha, Hana to Yume comics etc. This is a piece of fiction written by a fan, and I make no profit. Rated PG-13 for just the blood and the disturbing context. 

**A Monster's Guise**

Cold golden eyes stared upon soft porcelain skin. A fine delicate wrist leading to a well-formed hand and long, extravagant nails, tailored to length. Beautiful, the word so often used to describe such meaningless features such as these. Like a wonderful sculpted doll, perfected down to each and every fine detail. The soft stroke of silken skin, the fragile hands, just to be touched with them, was to be honoured... savoured. Capable of inflicting pain… agonizing pain… and yet also the most gentle touch of a loving soul, wrapping around the other in an embrace of longing.

Rociel sat, alone in the extravagant room, wonderfully isolated with but a small couch and a large window, from which the light shone down upon his crystal waves of hair and reflected in his large eyes. And lying next to him, on the soft pillows, was an ornately crafted knife, obviously never used, it's blade sharp and wonderfully shaped. Everything in the room was overdone, elaborately so, from the soft red of the couch to the gaudy carvings of the windowsill.

_*How fitting; A beautiful dolls house for me and my pets, my clockwork dolls that so eagerly would lap blood from the corpse of a maiden if I were to command it. An ornate birdcage for my stolen beauty.*_

His eyes fell once more, to his slender hand and wrist. Of course, maybe he shouldn't claim it as his. Stolen. Ripped from his sister like a savage animal. But did its origin deflect its beauty? His own beauty, though not in fact, actually his? No matter what it had once been his body was beautiful, was it not? To lay eyes upon it would be akin to swearing away one's soul to the depth of adoration or awe.

But it was so superficial. And so ugly. Though only he, himself, seemed to be aware of it. Still inside him the monster held place and controlled this body's movement, this ornate case to conceal that hideous reality. A stolen mask deflected and cracked. 

And what was this body? That when it hurt it was instantly healed? That it rapidly changed and he couldn't even see to what it would become? Smothered in this ignorance about the very mask that slipped over his hideous reality… The reality that slipped from his incomprehensible focus so often, shredding inside and almost revealing that true thing that lurked inside like a wounded beast.

Rociel had asked to be left alone. He had been sitting quietly in this cold room for an hour or so, but he didn't notice his body trembling from the cold in his light robes and how icy his hands, which he seemed to enthralled by, were. His other hand gently curved around the golden handle of the knife, but without flinching from its lack of warmth. He wanted to see, wanted to see what his body was. What was really underneath the wrapping of beautiful skin.

Still not noticing the tremble of his hand, he laid down his hand across his lap and pointed, poised the point of the knife at his wrist. The veins ran through to his hand, the soft red liquid, hot, pumping inside, through and through. If another, a human, were to slash across their skin, ripping through, the blood would fall, a scarlet river, slowly flowing away the life of the particular so-and-so, lying in their own warm fluid, until death.

*Not you though… not you…* 

Seized with a sudden urgency in his curiosity and hatred, he jerked the blade straight across the inside of his wrist. 

A soft red line ran down the white skin. In a way, it was beautiful, as if one were to paint a red bloody picture on soft pure snow. Blood had instantly run from the open wound, and Rociel barely noticed the pain, though he did flinch slightly. What did pain from this body matter when he was not even sure what it was? The blood dripped down his arm and onto his lap. The soft red on the blade reflected a dazzling light from the window.

Almost as instantly as the wound had been opened, the skin formed together again, melting into itself and the red bloody line disappeared, though the traces of blood that had dripped down his frail arm had not. He laid the knife on his bloody lap and with his other hand, gently touched the smooth skin where the wound had been. His eyes were filled with a rapt awe of sorts. What was this body, that wouldn't allow death… a monster's guise… 

The blood on his arm and lap darkened, a wonderful scarlet, as it dried and turned sticky. How often had he used this beautiful poison to make another swallow… to make them truly his dolls. Those pills which contained the inside of this hideous monster and yet also the blinding white purity of his three wings. Binding the other into rapt devotion and misguided love. Which he used to bind others to him, and force it to be their will. Make them all an extension of his monstrous form and watch and laugh as they all submit to his will. His beautiful toys; his beautiful dolls. What power this sweet sweet poison had, combined with that bright purity.

Rociel barely noticed how erratic his breathing was getting and how his long flowing tresses were, as they touched his lap, being bloodied. His eyes widened as his hand curved around the handle of the knife once more and slashed hard across the now healed skin.

The blood fell, released like a wild animal, and ran until his arm was red. And still the skin healed. Again and again, the angel slashed at it, the wound becoming bigger. To an outsider, he would have looked a madman, or feral animal. But still he slashed at the wound until it couldn't heal in time. How far could he go? How much blood could fall?

*This body truly is a monster…* 

The soft pillows on the couch were dyed scarlet. Rociel's clothes soft red. Finally, his breathing heavy, he released the knife from his grip and it hit the floor with a loud clang. Now shaking violently, he raised his wet and bloody wrist into the air in front of his face. No doubt that it would heal; though now the cut was large and grotesque, it would take longer. He stared at the blood, dripping from the wound, running down his arm. His breathing grew heavier still and his hand was shaking uncontrollably.

A sense of desperate desolation filled his being and almost defensively, he pulled up his knees, wrapping his non-bloodied arm around them, curling into a ball. His long hair tickled his bare feet, splattered with the red blood from his arm. And his eyes never left his erratic shaking arm, bloodied and pathetic. What was this body? That could not be cut without healing? That could not be released into death. That was so beautiful and yet so grotesquely hideous at the same time that he could not bare to look at it. 

Fear flooded through him like a bolt of lightning. What had he done? The pain, which he had not felt, suddenly hit him and his arm ached. He pulled it to him and held it against his chest. What had he done? He felt his vision blur and almost unaware of it, he felt tears slip down his cheeks.

Without warning, a warm and loving voice echoed in his mind:

*Rociel-sama, you are beautiful* 

"Katan…" cried the angel, his voice quiet and trembling at first, but growing louder. "Katan… Katan… KATAN!"

***

Rociel had requested to everyone that he be left alone and not disturbed, and Katan, wary around his master and his often-changing moods, had obeyed without question. Though, Katan was sensible and practical. He understood that it was definitely not a good idea to leave Rociel in a room alone. Who knew what he could do to himself. And so, Katan had quietly settled himself in the small room next door, which contained a desk, and had started to do some work. Here he felt close enough to Rociel to feel secure about his master's safety but also not directly defying his master's order.

The room was dark, as Katan had drawn the elaborate curtains so not to be bothered by the blinding sunlight. The room next door had been silent for over an hour, but Katan managed to resist the urge to check on his master. He didn't particularly feel ready today for one of his master's violent rages, and today he felt more melancholic than usual.

Sighing, and pushing back a strand of silver hair from his deep eyes, he tried to concentrate on his work, trying to feel comfort in the knowledge that as the room was silent, Rociel was probably alright, and was probably sleeping.

And then that feeling hit Katan again.

It pierced his heart and flooded his whole body with alarm. He didn't know how he knew, he just knew, just like all those other times. The feeling of being needed. The feeling of his master's sadness. The despair in his master's heart that hurt so badly. The need for him to be by his master's side, helping him.

And sure enough from the next room Katan heard that familiar voice, (now shaking… with… was that fear?) calling his name. Katan abandoned all thought. All he needed was to get into that room. All he needed was to stop that desolation that was hurting his master, that feeling which he could feel now. 

Katan raced from the room, and to the other door. He put his hand on the door handle, for a second unsure of whether to knock or not. But one more cry of "KATAN!" from inside the room erased all doubt from his mind. He was needed. He entered the room, closing the door swiftly behind him.

Rociel was hunched up on the ornate couch in the center of the room. Behind him, the light from the large window illuminated his small figure. Rociel was trembling and shaking. Tears slipped down his beautiful sculpted cheeks. And his body was covered with blood. He was gripping at his wrist, and blood poured down his whole arm, his pure white robes soiled. 

As soon as Katan entered the room, Rociel's cries stopped. His gaze touched the cherubim's form with startled fear and confusion. His eyes shone with tears (which he had no idea why they were there).

Katan's heart seemed to stop beating for a second. And then, he dropped all formalities. Racing quickly to his beloved Rociel-sama, so that he knelt beside the couch in front of him, saying nothing, Katan's strong hand touched Rociel's own delicate one, and turned the wrist so that he could see the cut, which had not yet healed. As soon as Katan's fingers touched Rociel's wrist, his own hands became stained with scarlet.

The Cherubim's eyes met those of his master's, those haunting golden eyes. His voice was one of desperate concern, and yet still quiet and soothing. "Rociel-sama… what happened?" Katan's hand was curled gently around his master's hand as he examined the wound.

Rociel felt a smile touch his lips, unnaturally merging with the traces of tears that remained. He bent his head forward a little; more of his hair cascading down and tickling Katan's now also bloodstained hand.

"Isn't it funny, Katan?" His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. "How no matter how much blood will flow, this body will not die?"

Katan looked down so that he could avoid Rociel's gaze. His hair fell in his eyes. He felt close to tears and he wasn't quite sure why. He felt his own hand trembling and he swallowed trying to stop the sob forming in his throat. He tried to keep the calm composure of his voice as he said. "Rociel-sama, we should clean this up and bandage your wrist…"

"What does that matter?" Rociel cocked his head, his eyes never leaving Katan's features. "This hideous skin will soon merge together and the cut will fade…"

He watched the Cherubim carefully. How often had he spoke with reverence, telling his master that he was beautiful, more so than anything. And he had always believed it. Believed the beauty in his master. What a misguided belief. To believe something so hideous could ever be beautiful. Could ever be capable of being something as beautiful as _she_ was.

Katan seemed to regain control of himself. "Rociel-sama… let me find water to clean the wound". He seemed to disregard Rociel's last comment. Quietly he stood, and took off his cape. He bent, wrapping it around his master's cold form. His touch was so gentle, so loving… like a mother wrapping a small child in a blanket.

*So is that what this has become now? The child is now the parent?* 

Katan left quietly, repeatedly looking back over his shoulder at his master. If Katan could have the choice, he would never take his gaze off his master.

He returned some moments later. He held soft white long cloth, a flannel and a small bowl of warm water. Rociel looked at him blankly and said nothing. Katan sat beside his master on the couch and placing the white bandages beside him, dipped the flannel in the water and gently wiped the blood from his master's arm. Rociel did not flinch. And eventually Katan washed all the blood from Rociel's porcelain skin.

Due to the repeated slashing of the skin, the body had not yet healed the cut. Though Katan thought it would be better to be safe. He gently took the long white cloth, pure and clean, and wrapped it around the wound before tying up the ends. Katan put the bowl on the floor along with the flannel and was about to stand. "I'll get you some clean clothes, Rociel-sama"

Rociel placed his non-bandaged arm on Katan's leg to stop him from getting up. 

"Katan… let me ask you one thing… am I beautiful?"

And Katan spoke with everything in his heart. His feelings so complicated and yet all around the core of his love for his master, flowed into one simple word.

"Yes"

Rociel drew his hand away and drew a breath in.

"I pray that you always see this deception, and will never see the me that is so hideous, it cannot be loved. I pray you will always see this mask"

Katan slowly stood to walk out of the room and get the clothes. As his hand touched the door handle, he turned and looked at his master.

"There is no mask"

**- FIN -**


End file.
